


Thought Blind

by Thesherlockholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Suicidal Ideation, The Paradox Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 10:24:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17938025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Thesherlockholmes
Summary: This is heavily inspired by Wordstrings Paradox Series. A sort of younger Sherlock from that series, before John. It is also inspired by recent thoughts and problems I've been having. I heavily encourage comments on this one for no reason other than the fact than I want to talk about it. Or you could just message me on Tumblr- askteensherlockholmes.





	Thought Blind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wordstrings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstrings/gifts).
  * Inspired by [An Act of Charity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/555316) by [wordstrings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstrings/pseuds/wordstrings). 



The world, the universe, at that moment was too much. It had all become a blur of information. It had dissolved into nothingness, everything had disappeared. Sherlock settled the violin under his chin, the weight was there, yes, but it was missing. The weight, the feeling. He lifted the bow and drew it across the strings, he couldn't comprehend the sound, the waves, where was the _noise_? His fingers pressed and moved, trying different arrangements of notes but they didn't fit. His thoughts had scattered so much across the field that they couldn't be collected, assembled, he couldn't make sense of it and that was ludicrous. He thought, he made patterns in everything, it's what he did and yet he just _couldn't._ There was a clatter as the bow slipped out of his hand and onto the wood floor. Hopefully it didn't break, though if it did he wouldn't mind. It was useless if he couldn't hear it. The wall was supposed to be beige but now it was white. That was all he could see. All around him and he was quite sure this was hell. Normal people thought heaven was filled with light and white and that was oh so peaceful, but this was genuine _hell._ People were generally not correct about a large variety of things but how could they be so dense as to think a world with no color, all white, could possibly be peaceful. It was hateful. It was not _right_. If he could he would crawl out of his skin, which now seemed to be too _something,_ he would. Only he couldn't. Though if he did there would be blood on the floor, organs and tissues and bones strewn over the floor, seeping into the rugs. A carcas of epidermis left and he would be dead. Everything would stop then. The thoughts and data and screaming. The silence and white and dreadful existence. It would all _end._ Perhaps if he got close, if he shocked himself, if he very nearly missed the mark of death, it would bring it back. It would bring the world back to him. Sherlock thought for a moment, shock. An interesting theory. An underground station in Liverpool. What if he stood in the tracks, waited until a train came barreling within inches of his great coat, before leaping out of the way, plastering himself beside the train tracks as it screeched past, his heart hammering in his chest. What if he didn't move? His blood would still, his heart stopped, his brain completely null. No. He would come out of this, he had before. It just felt like he wouldn't, like he would be stuck in white incomprehensiveness forever. He would feel his blood in his veins, running through him. His heartbeat was in his ears. One was not supposed to be this aware of their reason for fundamentally staying alive. But he was. Just as he was aware, usually, of the dust on the bookshelves, and people's calloused hands, and choice of clothing, and the state of dirt after rain, and the smell of rain itself, the taste of a thunderstorm- electric and metallic and calm and slightly like brownies directly from the oven.

_Focus._

_Weren't you listening? That's impossible._

_Do something._

_Once there was a way to get back homeward._

_Your taste in music and why did you waste brain space on the Beatles?_

_It was playing in the bookstore while I looked for a chemistry textbook._

_You could have deleted it._

_I didn't want to._

_All good children go to heaven._

He supposes that he is not good. This is an acknowledgment he has had been aware of for years. Ever since he stood outside the library as his parents spoke about his utter lack of feeling. That wasn't it though, he thought furiously. He felt. He did. Just not like the others. When something they loved died, like their dog, they had been sad. But Sherlock had asked why they were so sad when that was inevitable and now, if they visited a taxidermist, they could keep their dog forever. After that he had spent the majority of his time locked away in his room, as the looks on his parents faces had worried him so. They had looked sad, miserable, horrified of him. That was how everyone he had ever know thus far had looked at him at some point. He didn't know why. Was he really so different? Was he really so utterly wrong? He couldn't move. He couldn't stop. He couldn't-

_Am I wrong? Am I wrong? I'm wrong. Of course I am. Everyone says it with their faces. For someone who prides himself on observation could you really hope to avoid that fact? Are you really so dense, so sentimental, so sensitive about yourself? Face facts. You, Sherlock Holmes, must be someone lacking of normal feelings, normal thoughts. You will ruin people. You will ruin everyone. Without feelings that is what will inevitably happen. That is obvious. Save all those stupid people from you. Leave this house and protect your family. Protect Mummy and Father. Protect Mycroft. Go. Leave. It's logical._

_End this._

It just so happens that Sherlock knows of a 24 hour shop where he can get something to eat only a short tube ride from here. He throws on a coat and scarf and without thinking, without considering, because he has decided that this is completely logical, he leaves.

Everything is still white. The people on the tube are blank. He can't deduce what the girl in front of him is studying or what that old man had for lunch or who he's going to go meet. The shop has the news on but it sounds garbled and why can he not hear it? He orders chips because sitting an establishment without making a purchase is considered rude. He has no plan of what to do. Who does he know? Where can he go? No where. He has no one and no where to go and this was stupid. He'll probably die in the freezing rain from frost bite. Alone on the street. He won't have a funeral. No one with care that he is gone and isn't that what he wanted? No. He wanted to protect his family. That's why he left, right. He wants warmth. He wants his mother to praise his violin playing and brush his hair off his forehead when it gets in his eyes. He wants her to envelope him in her arms until he seeps into her normalness and-

_Stay away. Protect her._

_I was afraid I'd eat your brains._

_More music, really?_

_There's a woman over there who has just returned home from America. She left her husband there, hasn't divorced though. She's scared. The ring. It's- oh._

Before he can stop himself he has walked over to the woman and sat down across from her.

"Hello young man."

"Why haven't you divorced him?"

"I'm sorry, what dear?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Martha Hudson." Her lipstick is burgundy. The world is no longer white.

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily inspired by Wordstrings Paradox Series. A sort of younger Sherlock from that series, before John. It is also inspired by recent thoughts and problems I've been having. I heavily encourage comments on this one for no reason other than the fact than I want to talk about it. Or you could just message me on Tumblr- askteensherlockholmes.


End file.
